


Requiem

by claudiapriscus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AUish, But pretty close, Canon Het Relationship, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Not Quite Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudiapriscus/pseuds/claudiapriscus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jess is naught but a memory, dragged in Sam's wake across miles and years, a ghost even to the ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a response to a prompt I started a million years ago (well in 2010, to be precise). See the end notes for the exact prompt.

  
  
She'd always hated carnivals. She'd gotten lost in one as a little girl- taken a few steps away from her mother, and been lost in the whirling chaos of the lights and the noise and the churning masses of people. That memory had faded, eventually blurring into a muddled impression of sound and light and panic. It became her go-to imagining of insanity from the inside- no context, no anchor, just endless, bright-colored confusion. And maybe that's what this was- these explosions of reality and the following nothingness. Maybe she's tied down to a bed somewhere as doctors murmur in the background, assuring her parents that this newest medication will work, and she'll be back to no time.

  
But there's no sign of that. There's nothing constant, nothing familiar, nothing to tie these moments together, or anchor her to reality. Just- Sam. Always Sam. A parade of moments that never involve her, and maybe she's not crazy, maybe someone slipped her something and this is the tripped-out hippie version of the ghosts of Christmas. And just as she starts to think she's maybe started to make out the shape of things, she's slammed back into the fray, back into the churning nightmare carnival and she's lost again, dizzy and disoriented, like she's trapped on a tilt-a-whirl, catching only glimpses of the world around her.

  
 _Blink_

  
Sam's messily drunk. He throws a punch at a mean-looking, thick-necked redneck, then collapses to the floor. When she tries to go to him, the world _lurches_ and-

  
 _Blink._

  
It's dark. He wipes an arm across his face, smearing the blood. His teeth shine white, and he smiles and smiles. She doesn't know that smile, and she falters. He gets up off the floor and throws himself at another figure- a beast. A man. Beats its face in with his fists. Then he grabs the dagger and-

  
 _Blink._

  
There's a dark haired girl, and she's pulling Sam off the floor. She smiles and hands him a napkin. There's blood running from his nose. He takes it, then stumbles out the door after the woman.

  
“Sam,” Jess says, but he doesn't turn. Doesn't react.

  
 _Blink._

  
He's checking in to a motel. He signs the register, then hands the clerk a credit card. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” says the clerk.

She follows Sam to his room, dogging his footsteps. “What are you doing? What was that?”

  
Sam ignores her. Opens the door, closes it behind him. She's shut out-

  
 _Blink._

  
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jess demands. But he's too busy to answer. He's got the brunette's wrist pulled up to his face. He's licking down her arm. There's red smeared across his face-

  
 _Blink._

  
He's driving, the wipers rhythmically squeaking across the window. “I don't even know you,” she says heatedly. He doesn't even look at her.

  
 _Blink._

  
He's pushing that dark-haired hair girl up against a wall- shoving his tongue down her throat- possessively grabbing her breast. There's a hollow place opening up inside of Jess, like she'd just had the wind knocked out, like her lungs are on fire. Jess breathes, and then Jess rages, and the tears on her face burn all the way down. “Asshole! I'm _right_ here.” The bitch turns her head, and he moves his mouth down her neck. She smirks into his hair. “I know what you want. It's okay. It's okay.” Jess' voice seems to fold in on itself. It's quieter now, but with a sharper edge when she adds, “You goddamn fucking asshole.” She turns away, and-

  
 _Blink._

  
Sam stands before a man – _not a man_ – wearing a tan trench coat and a blue tie. “Castiel,” he says, and the man ( _not-man_ ) turns his head to look directly at her and -

  
 _Blink._

  
He's alone again, stealing away around corners and sneaking furtive swings out of a silver flask.

  
“Just _look_ at me- Sam, please- _goddamn_ you.”

  
 _Blink._

  
Jess gasps, feeling like someone just dropped her in a tank of ice water, feeling like a rubber band that's been stretched to the limits and then snapped back. The world still feels like it's spinning, but it's slowing down. She's been scattered, diluted, like oil and water shaken in a bottle, but now the pieces are coming back and she's feeling whole for the first time since-

  
It could almost be forever.

  
She's standing on rough gravel and broken glass outside an empty, run-down warehouse. It's the kind of place that looks like you could catch tetanus by just walking inside- there's the remains of dead machinery scattered here and there in pieces, as if by vultures. The glass glitters balefully, reflecting the dingy security lights overhead.

  
And it's raining. It beats hollowly against the tin roof, leaves streaks on the unbroken windows. It doesn't patter against her skin, or drip down her hair. A certain awareness comes filtering in as she regains herself. This isn't the first time- she just never remembers. She's been stuck on this ride forever, round and round. The details of all those years drift back. They still sting.

  
She runs a hand down her stomach, thinking of fire and blood and the strange frightful mechanics of the world become carnival. Her fingers catch on the loose fabric of that goddamn nightgown. There's no pain, no sign. There's not anything. No dust from all the miles she's seen now, caught in Sam's wake. It's not fair. There should be at least some visible, tangible sign of how far she's come. But the nightgown's blemish-free, still so pure and white she's begun to wonder if central casting screwed up and cast her instead of Sam's guardian angel. He won't let her go. Or maybe she's the one that can't. And how many miles has it been? How long since she last stood somewhere, free in her own mind and aware?

  
And here she is, with a front-row seat to the Winchester signature self-destruction. And hadn't she always suspected? Hadn't she always felt it? Trouble- that's what she'd thought, that day she first met Sam. He was trouble. It'd flashed across her mind and then been buried by her libido. And then, later, when she'd known him better- oh, he'd had his dark secrets, but he'd been so _sweet_ and brilliant and that smile- how could anyone resist? And even if she'd known- ah, well. Death had a way of stripping away self-delusion. No hiding from it: it wouldn't have changed anything. _Crash and burn, baby._ Goddamn him. She never wanted to be that girl.

  
And the damning thing- the really damning thing- was that she wasn't sure she was actually trapped here. It'd always be Sam. Always for Sam. Maybe this was a hell of her own making.

  
She pads across the gravel. It does not crunch under her feet. She heads for the warehouse door; Sam is never far.The door gapes open, like the mouth of a drunk. She ducks around it and goes inside. It is dark, and neither the hazy, diffuse moonlight leaking in through gaps in the roof nor the few scattered security lights do anything to illuminate the space inside.

  
It doesn't matter. She doesn't need to see him to know where he is. It's like there is a fishhook in her gut, tugging her gently along deeper into the building. She passes the hulking remains of collapsed and rusting machinery and the debris of illicit teenage parties, ducking instinctively (and pointlessly) under a tangle of chain until she comes across him, lying prone upon the floor. His hair has fallen over his eyes. It would have made him look so much younger, easing the lines that had come in the years since her death if it hadn't been for the blood trickling down from his nose and the awful slackness of his mouth.  


His eyes are open, if unseeing, and his face is turned, facing something beyond her left shoulder. She looks back to see a figure she had first missed. There is a body on the floor, wracked and broken across the chalked lines of an elaborate occult drawing. Jess turns back, and kneels down beside Sam, placing her hand on his cheek, as if she could still touch that warm flesh. Her heart feels like it's become a block of ice, a cold nothing in the center of her chest so big it aches. “God, Sam.” He doesn't stir. Of course he doesn't: she is a ghost even to ghosts. She sits back on her heels.

  
“You didn't tell anyone you were coming out here, did you? You've always got to do things your own way.” She closed her eyes for a second. “And now... now you're going to die here on this goddamn filthy freezing floor, and you're going to make me watch.” She leans forward, feeling oddly sharp and twice as fragile. “I always knew you were trouble,” she says. “But I don't think it ever had to be like this. It's not fair. You crashed, I burned and- you used to want something better than this. I deserved something better than this.” Her eyes burn with the tears she'll never get to shed. He doesn't stir, doesn't blink, and if he's breathing, it's too shallow for her to see. Something in her begins to crumble. “Oh, God. Whatever he's done, surely I deserved better than this.”

  
“It isn't God who damned you.” The voice was mild and without reproach, but it hits her with the force of a train. She spins around. There's a man standing behind her, regarding Sam with a steady and dispassionate gaze. She startles, thinking for a second that someone has finally seen her. But no, he was speaking to Sam. She should know better by now, but the disappointment still stings.

  
She turns to get a better look at the figure, but has to turn away just as quickly. Looking at him too closely is like looking into the heart of a nuclear explosion. There's something familiar about the being before her, some fragment that's gone before she can grasp it. The sight of him- what little of it she can stand – fills her with a dread and awe she has no name for.

  
“What _are_ you?” she murmurs to herself.

  
The man turns his head to look directly at her without turning the rest of his body, and if the shock of his gaze goes through her like ice, the weight of it burns. “I'm an angel of the Lord,” he says, and she can see it, see it in the heart of him: the fiery wings below, the fiery wings above, the great tongues of flame that fan out into feathers behind him. She averts her gaze before she can be consumed.

  
“Are you here for Sam?” she blurts out, before she can consider the wisdom of questioning angels. As soon as she says it she regrets it, because despite her death, despite everything- she doesn't want to know, doesn't want confirmation of what she already fears.

  
“No,” the angel says, and Jess begins to sag with relief before she recognizes the note of hesitation in the angel's borrowed voice. “I shouldn't be here.” The fire tenses and curls, ready to sweep out. Before he can take flight she shouts, “Wait!” and reaches forward, as if she had substance enough to hold him back.

  
He pauses, and once again she feels the full weight of his regard. It still burns, still pierces, but she finds she's no longer afraid of it. She's growing stronger under its burn- she's more than just the shadow dogging Sam's footsteps. Screw him and his death wish- she doesn't have to watch him die.

  
“You're an angel,” she says, standing up straight and gazing right back into the flames, “ _Save_ him.”

  
Behind the fire, blue eyes glance away. “I can't,” the angel says.

  
“Like _hell_ ,” she says, and any other time, she'd probably worry about swearing at an angel, but she's too angry now, too determined. “Why won't you?”

  
“You question the will of Heaven,” he responds, with more heat than she's expecting. “It's not your place. Saving him is not mine.” His anger is a fierce and dangerous thing, but she sense a note of discontent beneath the heat.

  
“I refuse to accept that,” she says, undeterred and twice as furious. “He's the best man I ever knew,” she says, “he deserves so much better than this.”

  
“He's an abomination,” the angel says, but there's no reproach in it. The human mask he wears takes on a deeply trouble air. “There is no kindness in saving him for damnation.”

  
“He's not damned!” Jess clenches her fists and buries them in the folds of her nightgown.

  
“No,” the angel agrees. “Not yet.”

  
Jess closes her eyes and shakes her head. “He's a good man,” she repeats. “Not-” she presses her lips together. “I _know_ he's mixed up in something bad. I _know_ it. God, I don't understand half of what I see, and usually can't remember it, but what I've seen- it scares me. He scares me.” She presses her lips together, and then looks directly back at the angel. “But I know him. He's still Sam. Whatever he's done- he'll make it right. I know he will. But he won't ever have that chance if you won't help him now.”

  
He softens. She's not sure how she can tell. The human face remains stoic, but there's something in the fiery depths that has changed. “When he dies,” the angel says, “You'll be freed from this entrapment and your soul will find its rest.”

  
“What?” She's momentarily disconcerted. “What is this? I thought I was – I don't know, a ghost.”

  
“No,” he says, his tone so final she doesn't really expect further elaboration. But he continues, “Spirits are those souls that choose not to move on. You could not have chosen this.”

  
She looks away, towards Sam, but she doesn't really see him. “What am I?”

  
“A memory.”

  
She frowns, shaken. She smooths down a fold of her nightgown, as if mere touch could prove her existence. “But I'm here. I'm- I'm _me._ ”

  
“You were,” he says. “Now, you're- fragments.”

  
Fragments. Whatever the hell that means, she thinks. Instead, she says: “And the rest of me?”

  
“Waiting.”

  
She doesn't need him to finish that sentence. “Waiting for Sam's death.” There's a bloom of fire, like a shoulder dipped in acquiescence. Emboldened, Jess continues, “So- what, he tied us together somehow? And now- oh. This is a goddamn joke. I'm only real when he- what? When he thinks of me? When there's something to remind him?” She knots her fists in the fabric of the nightgown. “Not that it's going to matter in a few minutes, so let's skip ahead to the important stuff. He's damned, you say, or is close to it. Which is bullshit, but you're the expert.” She stops, half expecting- something. Smiting, maybe.

  
“This generation of man defines itself by its impertinence,” the angel remarks, but the sharpness of the words is belied by a hint of wryness in the delivery. “What is it that you hope to accomplish? Sam's death or his damnation – these aren't accidents. He was warned; he chose this. It is beyond my power to change either.”

  
“So- what? You're just here to _watch_?”

  
“I...yes.” The angel turns away.

  
“But you could do something. You could save him. I know the good he's done. Doesn't he deserve a chance?”

  
The angel stays silent for a long moment. “My interference would not go unnoticed,” the angel says, and Jess notes the shift...and suddenly realizes where she's seen the angel before. “His brother!” she says. “You know his brother- you were talking to him in that room- you could tell him. You could tell him and then-”

  
“I can't.” The angel cuts her off, but there's true regret in his voice. “I'm being – watched.”

  
She stares at him, breathlessly angry. Jess doesn't want his sympathy, and she doesn't want his regret. She wants to not have to bargain for Sam's life. She wants to not be here. She wants her life back. “Then what good are you?”

  
“I'm sorry,” he says. But before she can tell him where to shove it, he reaches out and grabs her wrist. “You're nearly whole now,” he says. His touch burns, but she doesn't care. He's the first real thing she's actually touched- actually felt- in all the empty years since her death.

  
“What?” The slow burn has turned into a conflagration, but she ignores it. She's watching the angel. He doesn't answer her, just tightens his grip- and then he's gone. Just gone, the bastard, and she's right where she started except-

  
Her arm is still white-hot agony. She looks down, sees her fingers wreathed in flame.

  
 _You're nearly whole now,_ she thinks. She thinks of ghosts, and the choices they make. She smiles, and holds both arms up, like a dancer, the remnant of childhood ballet lessons. She thinks of fire and remembers burning, her whole body encased in flame.

  
 _Crash and burn, baby_.

  
The sprinklers go off, raining down torrents of black, filthy water. It puddles on the concrete floor, spatters Sam where he lies, oh so still, but passes through her without leaving a mark. The alarms go off next, loud and screaming. If this is a carnival, it is her carnival, and she is the master of its revelries. More sirens are added to the cacophony, but they're external and growing louder. She laughs and spins and takes a bow.

  
“You better keep me waiting a long time, Sam Winchester,” she says. “But it better not be forever.” She can feel herself fading again, but she doesn't much care. “I'm not that girl.” She stands over him, her hair hanging in her face, still lit by fire. She bends down and runs her hand down his face. She can actually feel it, feel the roughness of his stubble and the smooth coolness of his lips, and the movement of his breath.

  
“Jess?” It's not spoken, just a suggestion of lips against her palm. He's not conscious, not yet okay. But he will be...and if that's not enough for forever, it's more than enough for now.

  
The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt over at Oh_Sam on LJ (I took some obvious liberties here):
> 
> Unbeknownst to anyone, Jess' ghost has been following the boys around all the time, trying to watch over Sam but ultimately unable to do anything to help him. At some point after Sam broke the last seal (but before he is reveled to be Lucifer's vessel) he either falls very ill or is severly injured. Either way, he is going to die. Castiel still has enough mojo to help him but hesitates, thinking that considering Sam's nature and actions it might be better, in the grand scheme of things, if he didn't make it. But then he becomes aware of Jess and she manages to make him see beyond the "boy with the demon blood".


End file.
